


Flowers that are more beautiful at night

by hauntedpoem



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Discrimination, Engagement Rings, Flowers, Gardens, Glorfindel is being secretive about it, Loneliness, M/M, Maeglin has an admirer, Maeglin the ring maker, Parental Rejection, Rebirth, Rejection, Unwanted Child, cold reception, courthsip, family reunions gone bad, history follows maeglin, judgemental elves, precious gems and smithy musings, romance is not dead, so is Maeglin, the returned elves, the traitor of Gondolin, unwelcomed guest, valinor era, with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-10-30 18:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10882326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: There are many flowers that bloom at night. To Glorfindel, Maeglin is one of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of Maeglin, freshly arrived from the Halls of Mandos and the cold welcoming from his family.

The king's private garden has all sorts of flowers that bloom at night. It's a rustic area that requires relentless care and perfect synchronicity with the seasons of Valinor. In this specific part of it, if one happens to walk past the labyrinths of greenery and the marble statues of the rosary, they can find themselves right into the night garden, the most secluded place in Tirion.

There are night roses created by Maedhros himself, primrose flowers that bloom like stars on the night sky, there are the exquisite moonflowers that appear to glimmer in the surreal shadows created by twisting branches of old trees. You can smell from a distance the heady scent of tuberoses, fill your lungs with the perfume of linden trees, the cold, incensed air of Irmo's shrines. There are mysterious vines, crawling junipers, hedges of white jasmine of unsurpassed beauty and creeping ivy on the stone benches, some crumbling under heavy vegetation, forgotten by time itself. 

Near the pond, lotuses open up to the pale moonlight. There is the ever-present cacophony of frogs, calling each other in a mating rhythm and the indifferent hoot of a faraway owl. There are nightingales perched on the ancient branches and snakes slithering through the shining grass. 

Among these delicate and magical breeds walks Maeglin  Lomion, the Traitor of Gondolin, the cruellest elf, the one who bowed to the Darkness forever, or so the historians say. The truth is no one really knows and Maeglin has never stepped up to have his take on the events consigned to paper.

  
Glorfindel watches him with love-stricken eyes and sighs a lovelorn breath. It's a very different age they live in now and this is Valinor: eternally peaceful, basking in abundance and joy until the uncomfortable reality resurfaces whenever one of the returned makes a public appearance. It happened with Feanor, his sons and Miriel, it was bound to happen with Maeglin. Oh, the joy, unsurpassed by anything the earth has seen!

Except there is no joy for someone who hides an infatuation for the most controversial elf to have ever existed. There is only daydreaming and hope and there are furtive glances and piles of unsent love letters on his desk. And the lingering image of Maeglin Lomion strolling in the garden at night, admiring the roses and the nicotiana and all those colourful moths that surround the exquisitely crafted modern Feanorian lamps.

Once the sun has sunk on the other side of the world for another twelve hours, Maeglin makes a discreet appearance, shrouded in his dark cloak and begins his routine - this is the twist of the knife that makes his heart bleed more love.Of course, he hasn't told him, so he cannot even call it unrequited. There are times when his infatuation with Maeglin seems nothing but an impossible dream, a hallucination given by wine and Irmo's prankish moods.

Maeglin stops, admires the curlicues of the moonflower blooms and then paces away on the same old trajectory. Glorfindel learned them all, ever since he showed him this hidden side of the garden, many years ago.

 

*

He came to Valinor reborn like most of it inhabitants some fifty years ago, dressed in rough travelling clothes and bearing a bouquet of flowers for Aredhel, his mother. In his eyes, Maeglin held hope and innocence. He didn't possess all his memories back then. The troublesome thing was that they all possessed theirs and all the way the governor's dais, the crowd kept humming and murmuring words like _traitor_ ' and _killer_ ' and other hurtful things. These were, unfortunately, their reality, according to history about which, the young and faithful Maeglin Lomion was not aware of yet.

  
He was svelte and not as tall as the descendants of Fingolfin but wore the Noldorin traits passed by his mother with pride. He was a half-breed and that could be easily seen in the serendibite darkness of his eyes and in the gracious yet savage way he carried himself. He was a new and curious thing who spoke a foreign dialect and every minute or so asked of Aredhel. They told him to wait several days and allowed him with unconcealed coldness in a great waiting hall where everyone gathered to look upon this unique and infamous specimen.

  
"Who are you?" Asked Fingolfin, now the ruler of this particular district.  
"My mother named me Lomion, I am Aredhel's son. I wish to see my mother!"  
The youth replied with more unbearable hope in his voice, in the ancient Quenya that few remember. Those that didn't,  laughed at his predicament as if it was for amusement.

  
"I gather you wish to see the one who bore you into the world, elf, but the question that remains to be asked is whether she wants to see you," his royal ancestor gravely answered.

  
Glorfindel was shocked at the coldness of such welcome, especially since Maeglin could have no idea what happened in the past. For a while, Maeglin watched and processed the information in his head, ignoring the avid crowd. He was preparing an answer to that and Glorfindel read determination in his eyes. Erestor, at his side, elbowed him swiftly.

  
"What's wrong with him? Does he not understand? Are those who grew among Avari so slow?"  
But Glorfindel shushed him with a glare, for now, Lomion bowed deeply and then knelt in front of the one who was his grandfather.

  
"I pledge myself to thee, oh High King!" He said in a serious and overly formal tone, even though the elves in the crowd began now laughing and calling him names that brought too many unpleasant memories for Glorfindel and none for the youth's ears.

  
He spared them an apprehensive glance and turned his focus to Fingolfin who looked upset in his seat as he whispered something to his youngest and the tallest of his sons, Argon. Maeglin's confidence plummeted a little but he faced the nobles bravely. Glorfindel could appreciate that in him. He always did. At last, Argon returned with his older sister, Aredhel, the White Lady, and it was painful to see Maeglin's face brighten at the sight of her.

  
" _Naneth_!" He cried and moved closer, uncertain how to proceed. He sounded very much like a child in that moment, vulnerable and in need of comfort.

  
Aredhel's head turned instinctively but she smoothly corrected her gesture and dressed her face in the cold, unrecognisable mask of the White Lady. She is unmovable, marble-hard and too beautiful to rage against.

  
"I see you, Maeglin, son of Eol, the dark elf who kept me captive as his wife for more than a yen." Those present murmured and gasped their concern and intrigue at that. Maeglin just looked more confused, already understanding that he was not actually wanted here by his Noldorin kin.

  
"However, I am bereft of your presence and that of your other parent by my choosing." She spoke standing in profile, not looking directly at him but identifying his prostrate shape on the marble floor of her father's halls. "I cannot be what you need me to be for I never wanted any descendants of my own, so you see, Maeglin," she continued, refusing to call him by his mother name, "you should better go to your father who dwells in the mines below the mountains." With that being said, she turned and left the hall accompanied by her handmaidens.

With that being said, she turned and left the hall accompanied by her handmaidens.

  
Maeglin held the white flowers he collected especially for his mother and they seemed to wilt before everybody's keen eyes. His fingers worried at the delicate twigs of jasmine and gardenia and he adamantly kept his eyes ahead, towards Fingolfin who, although shaken by his daughter's dismissive words, descended and came closer to his nephew, someone about whom he read extensively yet has never met in person until this moment.

  
In front of him, Maeglin bowed again and said in the same ancient Quenya he must have learned from his mother as a child growing up in Nan Elmoth. The structure was childish and simple and reminded of the formulaic phrases of the elvish fairy tales. He handed the Noldo his wretched flowers and from the sack that he wore on his back, he extracted rough golden ore and unseen gems from the depths of the earth and four silver clasps he must have crafted himself.

  
"I travelled a long way to see thee, and..." But his words trailed, unsure.  
"And there you should have tarried, on those lands from where you came, or better, you should have lingered undisturbed in the halls of the dead," muttered Turgon, dark of face and barely containing his temper.  
Glorfindel watched and felt every stab as if it were addressed to him. He couldn't help but praise Maeglin's innocent and honest self in front of these adversities.  
"I shall walk you out, then," Fingolfin said with finality and a trace of kindness.

  
"What is he? Stupid?" Mocked Erestor, now entranced by the drama he was witnessing but unaware that his companion ignored his mocking remarks.

Servants came to relieve Maeglin of his gifts. Glorfindel was not sure what they would do with the flowers for they were useless now.

"I invite you out of these halls, Maeglin, son of Eol," Fingolfin said with finality. Then, after some time, as the silence threatened to pierce their eardrums, for the auditorium held their breath, he continued, on a gentler note, "nephew," and escorted Maeglin with two guards. The people made way for Fingolfin to pass first. Glorfindel could not just sit and watch this monstrous spectacle take place, so he intervened, despite Erestor's cautious hand dragging him back. "No, leave me be," he said softly, eyes entirely trained on Maeglin's retreating form. 

The people made way for Fingolfin to pass first. Glorfindel could not just sit and watch this monstrous spectacle take place, so he intervened, despite Erestor's cautious hand dragging him back. "No, leave me be," he said softly, eyes entirely trained on Maeglin's retreating form. 

"I shall join the party," he said to the guards behind Maeglin's back and braved the eager and hungry looks he was given.

Maeglin walked trustingly enough to his doom and shame but Glorfindel could not pinpoint the exact feeling that must have grasped him. Strange he was when they first met and although he expected Maeglin not to recognise him, he at least hoped for a spare glance. But he could understand the refusal to focus on the many eyes that despoiled his innocence before his king as he so candidly spoke of his return and desire to reunite with his family.

Soft and naive, he stepped ahead, following his grandfather, the central figure of most of his mother's stories which he recalled as distant memories of his own. He has never seen such greatness except for what he now guessed where the disreputed Halls of Mandos in which his soul spent aeons contemplating existence. The trouble was that he barely remembered what that existence was. His grandfather, his king, did not refuse or accept his pledge, yet and he grew even more hopeful, a fuel that, it seems, he had in abundance.

They crossed a garden, Glorfindel walking swiftly behind them, and reached Fingolfin's summer quarters. The guards remained outside but Glorfindel entered after Maeglin who turned and looked at him properly this time, wondrous and open. Glorfindel smiled assuringly. He hated giving him false expectations yet he couldn't make himself to be cruel to him. He has never been. 

"Grandfather," Maeglin said and embraced Fingolfin with affection. "I thank thee for receiving me!"

"Sit down, Maeglin," Fingolfin said, stern and thoughtful. He resumed pacing the room as he always did when he was faced with a conundrum. Glorfindel made himself useful. "Bring our guest food and water, he came a long way." One of the guards went to announce in the kitchens but the other watched the king and his guest with interest. Glorfindel came and sat right behind Maeglin, a benevolent presence. The youth turned his head and looked at him from where he sat. He was fascinated by everything his eyes happened upon and this was the most beautiful soul he's seen. Ever. He smiled and whispered, "I thank thee for your kindness, oh, lord."

Glorfindel bit his lip awkwardly. He was no lord here, just in his former life, in Turgon's court. The night ended with Turgon making an upset appearance and goading his father to accept the signing of some papers. 

"Here, you sign that you renounce your title, the lady does not suffer your presence in our house." Turgon was rushed and fuming, exalted by the heaviness of his memories, perhaps. Then, as if just remembering, he placed the paper under Maeglin's nose and indicated where he needed a signature.

"I cannot force my daughter to have you here. As you have noticed, perhaps, your presence perturbs her considerably." Fingolfon spoke like a true politician as he eyed Maeglin hold the quill and begin to write. "Her situation worsened when she found out your father settled in a community nearby. You could go to him anytime, if he allows it, rather than stay here and rouse the crowds" he supplied, matter-of-factly. "I, for one, have nothing, really, against you. You, as any other here, have atoned for your sins and can start afresh but what you have once done, cannot be erased from the people's memory."

Maeglin looked about him as if for reassurance and strength. His eyes settled on Glorfindel as if to ask him for approval. He was just a child, scared and terribly perplexed by the whole thing. 

"Uncle, surely, this is not the way of the Eldar to do things, not when one has no memory of the past," Glorfindel broke the thick silence. He could see Maeglin's hand hesitating above the line that said he renounced his name and title. Turgon waited outside, apparently too bothered to land eyes on the one that betrayed his hidden city to Morgoth, the blight of the world.

"You have a choice to sign or not, Maeglin, no one is forcing you to make a decision," but that's exactly how it felt. "Glorfindel is right, it is cruel of us to exile you from out land and your family without you knowing what you have committed, the crimes you have dealt upon Gondolin and its people. "Yes, shock suits you better than naive bewilderment, my nephew is right," Fingolfin spoke like an old thing, he was, after all, a spurned brother himself, for Feanor, upon his return, secluded himself and his sons and his mother deep in the heart of Formenos and did not deem it necessary to visit his family. Finwe desired to see him but by the time Miriel the seamstress and his first wife stepped foot in Valinor for the first time after ages, he surrendered to the fate he set for himself and rested along Indis, his Vanya wife and their four children together. Feanor lived in another world altogether now. 

"Your gifts, I shall accept. If you still desire, I will accept your service as well."

"With much delight, my lord," Maeglin said with an ounce of excitement and looked about the room for the maid came bearing a tray of food and a pitcher of water. He ate bread and cheese and drank sweet, fresh water that could not compare with what he had on his way. A simpleton's meal, it was, but Maeglin took pleasure in it, famished from the road and bearing no visions of elegance and fine foods except for the stories filtered through aeons of solitude and atonement among the keeper of the dead.

And so it happened that Maeglin accepted to stay in the palace, although Fingolfin did not offer. He worked a smith's share, though and although his work was deemed cheap and traditional, he continued to do so as well as read the few tomes the loremasters have given to him. Books on history and things about his past. Many were the historians and masters of letters that anxiously awaited Maeglin's uncelebrated fiftieth begetting day, to glean the memories and complete their histories, but that day passed and no one knew it did, for Maeglin kept to himself in the solitude of his forge and only walked at night, when few came by his presence.

*

He now walked among wisteria trees and tall grass, rejoicing, perhaps in the fragrant and cool air. Glorfindel decided to make an appearance. He couldn't help it anymore. He did the same as every night, walked and followed until his path intersected with that of Maeglin. Now many years have passed and surely, Maeglin was long past his fiftieth begetting day and his memories must have returned but he refused to give any account on what had happened for he was difficult to find during the day. As was wont to happen, Eol dismissed his arrival and treated him like no son of his so Maeglin had to return to the palace and earn his keep doing menial forge work and repairs for farming tools. His technology was deemed outdated, unlike that of Curufin or Celebrimbor who worked to devise new and more effective methods. But Maeglin's work was more affordable and although lengthier and more complicated, there were some who demanded it from him. 

He worked in the mines as well and soon, as the years went by and he gained more independence, he separated himself from his grandfather's influence as best as he could. He had the approval to walk the gardens, the only thing he demanded though, for what harm could that do, even at night? It dawned on Glorfindel that not once has he laid eyes on Idril Celebrindal since he arrived in Tirion.

The night advanced and deepened and their paths crossed again. Maeglin delayed his encounter as much as he could and Glorfindel steeled himself for a stilted "hello" once again. Maeglin never asked questions, just acknowledged his presence and continued his walk. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you have read, Aredhel is deeply disturbed by Maeglin's return. She holds herself to blame for the tragic events that followed and her shame overshadows her kindness. She thinks that by rejecting her son, her family would be spared the judgement of the outraged Gondolindrim. Eol is even worse. The whole Nolofinwions are in a bad disposition, especially Turgon.  
> Maeglin now possesses his memories and there are a number of avid historians (Erestor is one of them) and writers who wish to hear him out on the fall of Gondolin. However, he refuses.  
> If you wonder about Glorfindel's parentage, he is the child of a Vanya Lord with Irime, Fingolfin's younger sister.  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

Maeglin does remember. He, perhaps, remembers too much and he knows that his memories will fall into place in due time and when that will happen, they will flood his mind and terrify his life. Right now, many of them don’t make sense. He hasn’t had a chance to talk to  Salgant, for example. Or Echtelion. He saw them in passing and images and sounds burst into his mind as if he needed to catch up on something.  
Maeglin doesn't fear their dismissal but he dreads isolation. But how can he appear normal and have these frightening dreams? He curls up into himself when it happens. He feigns ignorance instead of admitting to these changes. He clings to that. All it takes is their rejection in order for him to feel very alone. With the exception of one, perhaps. He's not very sure about that either. He doesn't want to overreach, although, in his wildest dreams, the sneaky thought plagues him.

He likes Glorfindel and there is no thought from his past or an image from his tumultuous dreams to indicate he shouldn’t trust him. If anything, Glorfindel’s always been kind and generous, especially since he had nothing to gain from it.  
He dreams of golden hair as he's never seen before, of blue eyes like sapphires in the tender light of the end day. He reaches with his frozen fingertips and it warms him up like a forge fire. It's what keeps him going. The kindness, the pure, divine beauty that betrays a beauty of the soul, the frequent meetings in the garden. Whenever Maeglin sees him approaching, something inside him sizzles with utter excitement. He brightens up and his voice, although strong and commanding, takes a quivering, breathless quality. He reigns it in and trains his eyes to the ground.   
Sharp glance, they call him. Maeglin, dark eyes, for he is not only observant and had a keen eye for details and an intimidating spark of intelligence but he's also a natural at mindspeak and mindscaping and still has a way to go to control their wild tendencies better. And the last ones frighten others. They always did, even in his previous life.

Now he keeps to himself, like he always does. He makes brooches and rings and turns his craft the old way, through arduous searches and mindless hammering. He tries to steer his art from weaponry. That’s now considered barbaric and unnecessary. There are lords, however, who would love to have embellished swords and spears and axes to fill up rooms and hallways for the sake of their past as warriors but having war weapons is costly and highly frowned upon.

He searches for obsidian and sapphires and sometimes he finds rare diamonds. In his wildest dreams, he offers them as presents to Glorfindel. One day, he hears her name and to his utter confusion, it doesn’t elicit anything in him. Idril Celebrindal and her husband Tuor are just names, ordinary, unimportant. He doesn’t seek her out but he truly doesn’t understand how was it possible for him to have an interest in her when all he’s attracted to are broad shoulders and sapphire blue glances and strong, warrior hands.

He likes men. That’s not news to him. Somehow, he’s always known it. It’s strange that in this life no woman can make him feel anything, except perhaps Aredhel, his mother. But all she does is make him inadequate, foolish, unmannered. Fingolfin visits him monthly and when he doesn’t, he always sends for his youngest son with news and gifts. Most of the time he gets the impression that Argon is completely unfeeling about his task and treats it like a chore but there are times when he notices him staring and knows where those eyes have lingered on his body. To say the least, it’s improper and perverse. He remains quiet and never challenges those eyes. Sometimes he looms above him like a too tall tree, dark and threatening.

“What are you working on, nephew?” He almost spits the words, they always come out harshly. Maeglin always responds, even when it’s obvious.

“A ring.” He looks down and continues to ply the metal with delicate instruments. He wants it perfect.

He is surprised he still has clients. And they are never cheap, for they always leave more than is necessary. He starts suspecting that almost all his commissions come from the same person and he is wary of Fingolfin ever buying his work out of pity. They always send a servant with plenty of money and enough directives. He works all day and all night to finish them sooner. It gives him both pleasure and doubt. He sometimes imagines they would be seen by others and criticised for the technique, the materials or the embellishments. One thing he never fears for, is originality. Everything he makes has never before seen or tried. Of that he is proud.

But he is dismayed. His last commission, and in other’s eyes, the most simple one, just left him baffled: an engagement ring on which the buyer only specified the size and nothing more.

He wants to ask. What metals do they want him to use? What stones? Inscriptions? When is it due? But there was no such information. It frightens him. For the first time, he fancied himself in a relationship of sorts with his most loyal client. He’s never seen his face but already knows his tastes and knows how his hands may look. Sometimes, the image of his dreams, of golden hair and Glorfindel superimposes on the mysterious stranger. Sometimes he wishes they were one and the same. But that is only fantasy and Maeglin has had enough of reality lately.

There’s a harshness to his dreams when they are plagued by images of Angband. He dreams of orcs and trolls and wargs. He oftentimes find himself in his cell with an orc guard grinning wickedly at him. And that’s the good part of his dreams. The rest, he doesn’t want to remember. Sometimes, he dreams of his father, Eol, whom he doesn’t want to see ever again. Sometimes he dreams of his men, tying him down as he is used and torn like a rag.

He wakes up and the plans for the ring are there. It’s silent in his workshop. It’s even more daunting, the dead silence in his house. No one really visits him and when they do, it’s only out of curiosity. He’s taken on the habit of sleeping during the day with heavy black curtains around his bed and windows. He wakes when the sun is dying, bleeding a crimson sunset and gets back to work. Most of the time, he tries new designs but all seem to fail the image he had in his head.

It takes him three weeks to come up with a decent plan but even then, he is unsure and displeased with what he came up with. He feels dwarfed by the task. He feels jealous, horribly so. And there is no sign from the mysterious commissioner, no word from any of his servants. Maeglin is restless and for the first time in ages, ditches his work.

Under a full moon, he strolls through the gardens. Ivy walls and the perfume of white nicotiana flowers surround him. The lamps give off a suave light and he takes his time to observe the moths and the night insects, glowing eerily.

What would someone in love want? The presence of their beloved. He tries to fashion himself in that position and he doesn’t fail but is shocked at his imagination. It doesn’t help when he almost bumps into Glorfindel. How could he have forgotten? Glorfindel always walks at night, his golden hair a halo about him, his blue eyes darker, more deep than the lake itself.

Glorfindel smiles and bows, as usual, Maeglin greets him with a shaky voice. Then he does the unthinkable. Extends the conversation, to his surprise and Glorfindel’s obvious pleasure. They haven’t conversed this way for many years and with good reason. Maeglin feels unworthy most of the time. Why would anyone want the traitor of Gondolin?

And Glorfindel is always amenable and so polite and everything Maeglin hoped and dreamed of all this time since he came to his grandfather's palace.  It wouldn’t do to embarrass himself but he will ask anyway. What would Glorfindel want for his beloved? Of course, if he had one - not to pry but Maeglin burns with curiosity and a need to know. What ring? How does love reflect in an object? Because he cannot do with the hundreds of sketches and prototypes. He’s fashioned no less than ten rings and they all fall short on something. Something is not right. At least Glorfindel didn't mention any elf woman.

Glorfindel talks to him about love and how wonderful it is and Maeglin feels terribly alone. He almost cannot bear thinking that Glorfindel would be so poetic about it. He grows jealous but he’s also inspired.

No more sapphires, or diamonds, or even the coveted beryls. Suddenly they all seem very inane to him. He is surprised when the ring fits his finger perfectly but then again, Maeglin always had thin, disturbingly delicate fingers even for a male and a smith, with narrow nails and long fingers, pale as the belly of the moon with only a hint of spidery blue veins. He searches his supplies for the rarest thing he has found in Valinor. It’s a dark chunk of serendibite and he already started sketching in his mind the final design. He has no time for drawing anymore. He heats the forge and knows immediately what he will use. Mithril and dark gold. For a second, he shivers in both fear and anticipation. He hasn’t eaten a thing in days and he is now thirsty and desperate to catch the brief glimpses of creation. He cannot stop to eat or drink. It’s the middle of the night and Maeglin works at bending the metals, intertivining them. This is no flimsy delicate ring. He could care less if the maiden will be displeased, This ring, he realizes, Maeglin makes for his own liking. It’s what he would like, strange and selfish as it may sound.

All day long he stays locked inside his workshop, denying himself water and bread just to polish the stone. It’s an alien thing, frighteningly beautiful through its uniqueness and rarity. Blue as deep as the ocean when lightning passes through its depths, and green as the forests of Nan Elmoth and dark gold, like Glorfindel’s hair that midnight. Cut in a myriad of facets, the stone reveals its true nature. It sometimes appears black, like the undisturbed pools of tar from his deepest nightmares or the night sky of his dreams when fantasy curls up in his belly and he suppresses a moan as he thinks of Glorfindel.

It is beautiful and intriguing, it has to be, and it is ready in a matter of days. Two lines of twisting metal united by the teardrop large gem. He immediately feels his thrill disappear when he realizes that no maiden would want this ominous ring. It speaks of dark things, of hidden desire and terrible longing. It suffices a glance to understand that it’s been born out of a love that borders on obsession. He feels ashamed and as he examines it, fascinated by his own creation, a shadow appears in front of his door.

It’s Glorfindel, come, perhaps, in visit after their most recent meeting in the gardens. He has a different look about him. He is serious and thoughtful. Maeglin knows that his eyes are trained on his fingers, nimble as he turns the ring on all sides.

“What is that?” he asks and at first, Maeglin is hopeful. He wants to share his creation with someone. Perhaps it will be rejected after all and will remain here, with him, forever, a secret reminder.

“The ring I fashioned after talking your ear off about marriage bands and other silly designs.”

Glorfindel frowns but he doesn’t take his eyes off the ring at all. It is slightly disturbing.

“Is that the engagement ring?”

He seems to frown but then his eyes widen in fascination as he moves and lets a stray beam of sunlight inside. It reflects blue, then green, then dark and then pale gold. Maeglin knows it must be strange to see such an array of colours, most of them dark and deep on a ring that is supposed to signify the union of souls.

 

To further elaborate, Maeglin puts the ring on his finger and displays it.

“Strange, isn’t it? It fits me perfectly and I followed in the measurements.”

Then, Glorfindel looks up. “Of course it does, it is yours, after all.” He smiles and it’s a strangely lost gesture on his beautiful stoic face. He looks sad and immensely pleased at the same time. Maeglin doesn’t really understand but then his eyes swoop over Glorfindel’s cloak and he notices the brooch he made a couple of months ago. It’s just a simple, functional thing that he fashioned out of amber in the form of a stick insect. A commission, one of the many. It is striking but looks out of place on velvet.

Having noticed his confusion, Glorfindel takes Maeglin's hand in his and kisses it. "I could trust no other with it, beloved," and Maeglin's stomach flutters with long suppressed desire at those words.

~END~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serendibite is indeed a rare gemstone when it comes to colours other than black. It is also a bit of a disturbing stone, a bit dark and mysterious. I thought it fitted MAeglin very well.


End file.
